


As a light through your darkest unknown

by NathalieWeasley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Major Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NathalieWeasley/pseuds/NathalieWeasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco wishes that the Healer in question wasn’t <i>Harry Potter</i>, and that <i>Harry Potter</i> wasn’t sitting two feet from him, explaining that he has the wizarding version of the Muggle autoimmune disorder, AIDS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As a light through your darkest unknown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sylvaticginger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylvaticginger/gifts).



> **TROPE: Injury/Illness**
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> 
> A/N: A million thank yous so my fantastic beta M. And thank you to Nox who is so unbelievably wonderful in holding all of the fests that she does for dealing with me and all of my delays. Title comes from  Never Alone by Jesse Bonanno.

Draco shivers as he enters Flourish & Blotts through the back entrance. Once in the small room that serves as office, kitchen, and storage space, he flicks his wand at the fireplace and the tea kettle. It is still cold out in London for late March, and Draco tucks himself deeper into his winter coat as the kettle hops in place over the small stove. It has always been a little ticklish in the mornings. 

Mr Zhang, the new owner of the bookshop, comes into the office-kitchen and sets a manuscript on the corner. The pages look well thumbed, and Draco can see several comments in Mr Zhang’s curved handwriting on the first page alone.

“Have a glance at this sometime today, will you, Draco?”

Mr Zhang approaches Draco. The finished tea is zooming through Draco’s veins, but he shivers again and remains at the fireplace. He glances up at Mr Zhang who is looking at him closely, a frown on his face.

“You look awful.”

“Thanks ever so.” Draco rolls his eyes and eyes the manuscript. “A new draft?” he asks.

Mr Zhang’s dream is to publish works by those whose voices have not been heard. Mr Zhang had purchased the bookshop from Mr Blott after the war. Mr Flourish had been killed by Death Eaters, and Mr Blott said he couldn’t see running the shop without him. Mr Zhang opted to keep the name of the shop intact ‘for tradition’s sake.’ In the years since the war, he has brought the bookshop back to life. He hired Draco immediately after his purchase of the shop, stating “If I get a fresh start, you should as well.” The two of them took inventory post-war, rearranged the layout of the shop, added several reading nooks interspersed among the shelves, and, though it was not yet public, started a small publishing outfit in the backroom. Draco helps Mr Zhang achieve his dream, though his own remains on the author’s side of publishing.

Mr Zhang nods, though he continues to scrutinise Draco. “Davies sent it in last night after you left. He's improved.”

Draco nods. “Fantastic.”

Mr Zhang sighs. “You need to head home, Draco. Or better yet, go to St. Mungo’s. You look terrible, and your colour was off all last week.”

Several minutes of protesting later, Draco finds himself walking down Diagon Alley toward the Apparition point. Mr Zhang usually gets his way, and Draco must admit that most of his advice is quite apt.

\--

The waiting room at St. Mungo’s is filled with a ghastly assortment of snot-nosed children, grown men with bizarre objects emerging from their heads, and worried loved ones. Draco signs in with the mediwitch and finds a seat next to an elderly witch who seems perfectly alright until she opens her mouths and start making high-pitched cawing noises. The elderly witch is called away, and Draco rubs frantically at his ear. He should probably mention traumatic hearing loss to the Healer. 

The morning passes by in a whirl of invasive questions and lime green robes. Draco is finally escorted to a private room in a tiny wing on the second floor and told to wait. He is exhausted and eyes the bed in the room longingly. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t do to be unconscious when the Healer arrives so Draco remains in the uncomfortable wooden chair, hoping the Healer can figure out his extended period of malaise.

\--

The Healer can, and Draco wishes he hadn’t been able to. He also wishes that the Healer in question wasn’t _Harry Potter_ , and that _Harry Potter_ wasn’t sitting two feet from him, explaining that he has the wizarding version of the Muggle autoimmune disorder, AIDS.

\--

Harry had not expected his day to involve informing Draco Malfoy he has a disease still referred to by the public as a ‘gay disease.’ Malfoy says little as Harry gives him a rundown of the typical symptoms and treatments. AIDS has both Muggle and Wizarding variants. The magical version – which Malfoy has – is much harsher. The magical core of the wizard (or witch) will try to protect its host from infections after the immune system fails, but while this protection extends the ‘symptom-free’ period, it also lulls the wizard into a false sense of security. Cases of Wizarding AIDS are, therefore, detected and diagnosed later than Muggle AIDS and carry a more severe prognosis. While luckily, Malfoy’s case was caught early, Harry insists on a long hospital stay.

Malfoy’s face is like stone, but Harry presses on. “The typical means of acquiring AIDS are blood transfusions, mating and bonding rituals, shared needles, and…unprotected sex.”

The glare Malfoy bestows on him has changed since Hogwarts. It is more mature, more enraged, more powerful. Harry squirms. “I’m not trying to issue a condemnation, Mr Malfoy. I’m simply listing the most common places to contract AIDS…There’s also…if your partner has been unfaithful –”

Malfoy turns away. “No partner, but the unprotected sex….I need to stay sane somehow. I need to be myself. The sex was an escape.”

Malfoy turns swiftly back to Harry, mature glare once again focused on him. “You wouldn’t understand, Potter! Living as a bent wizard is rather difficult.”

Harry swallows. “I might just know how it feels.”

Malfoy’s eyes snap to Harry’s, wide and shocked, and a moment of understanding passes between them.

Instead of spitting out some sort of barbed comment like those he favoured at Hogwarts, Malfoy sighs. “So what do I do?”

\--

If Draco is to be at St. Mungo’s for a while – which seems likely due to a ‘combination of illness, overall frailty, and general living conditions’ – he needs to get everything squared away back at Flourish & Blotts. He Owls a quick note to Mr Zhang detailing his unfortunate leave of absence and inquiring as to whether he can edit manuscripts from the hospital. The Owl returns within the hour. The simple missive states, “How about you get to finishing that novel you think I don’t know about? Get well. LZ.” Draco flushes. Apparently, he is not as discreet as he thinks.

Draco is a writer. Though he works as an assistant (and confidante and accountant and bouncer) at Flourish & Blotts, his first novel is tucked away in a drawer in his small flat: an account of the war from his perspective. Though it has been more than ten years since the war, he is still nervous to put his words out for the public to see. He expects judgment and condemnation and scorn, most of which he knows is deserved. 

\--

Harry passes by Malfoy’s room (which he only does at suitable intervals, Hermione, thank you very much). Malfoy is reading his mail. Harry watches as he tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth and soothes his fingers over the parchment. He flushes, cheeks tinted with a red that highlights the paleness of his complexion. A letter from a lover? Reminding himself it is none of his business, Harry slips by Draco’s room and proceeds, more distant than usual, with his monthly check-up – just before the full moon – of Mr. Eisler in the next room over.

\--

On Midsummer’s Eve, Harry joins Ron and Hermione, Neville and Hannah, Seamus, Lavender, and several other Hogwarts graduates of their year at Luna and Dean’s sprawling home in the country. London proper was too crowded and claustrophobic for both Luna’s imagination and Dean’s artistry. The home had been purchased from an older Wizarding couple who had built it in the early twentieth century to get away from the hustle and bustle. Dean and Luna fell in love with the couple and the house, and set about turning the place into a home, now populated with young Thomases.

A river runs past the cottage by the garden, and Harry watches the crack willows sway in the breeze as he chats with Dean about his latest commission. Luna and Marlene come to join them from where they have been making flower headpieces.

“Xeno’s around here somewhere. I saw him running around with only one shoe.”

At Harry’s inquiry, she clarifies. “Baby Xeno.” You can never be sure, particularly with baby Xeno’s admiration for the absurdities of his grandfather. The toddler in question comes running around from the side of the house. The misbalanced footwear seems to be giving him coordination problems, and he wobbles to the ground. Baby Xeno looks around, as if pondering whether crying for attention is worth it, before getting up and running to join his mum and sister making flower headpieces.

Harry takes a swig of lager. His thoughts drift back to Draco in the hospital. He has been at the hospital a week without a visitor and spends his time scratching away with a white and brown quill. What could he possibly be writing?

\--

Shortly after ten, with the kids all sleeping on the floor of the study and the adults lying in the grass outside watching the stars, Harry commandeers a slice of whortleberry pie and a pasty from Luna and begs off.

The hospital is quiet at this time of night. The only people around are harassed-looking Healers, sleeping patients, and loved ones too headstrong for the nurses to kick out. Smiling at Mrs Eisler who spends every full moon in the ward with her husband, Harry tiptoes down the hall to Malfoy’s room. He intends to chat with Malfoy a minute – it is important to monitor his patiently very closely – but Malfoy is sleeping when he enters the room. Smiling at the sight of Malfoy sprawled across the bed, Harry places the plate of food on the nightstand and waves his wand over it; the Stasis Charm should last until morning. 

Malfoy’s pale face is tilted toward the window as if to soak up all of the light from the moon, and his limbs are draped over as much of the bed as he can reach. His hair is mussed, and his mouth is pink and pouty. He is gorgeous.

Harry takes a seat by the bed. His shift starts in three hours, and he might as well while away the time here.

\--

Potter is sleeping in his room. Potter, the Healer, is sprawled out on an uncomfortable wooden hospital chair in Draco Malfoy’s hospital room. The world’s paradigms shift.

Potter shifts alongside the paradigms and wakes up.

\--

Harry spends the last half hour before his shift chatting with Draco Malfoy. He has been living alone in a small London flat. His father is in prison, and his mother is in France with a new husband. 

“She thought that asking me to leave England with her was perfectly suitable as care on behalf of a mother.” Draco scoffs and looks away. “I couldn’t give up. Not after everything.”

Harry can understand. He specializes in rare disorders, working with the cases no one wants to touch. Harry sees his patients when they have nowhere to go and when everyone else has given up on them. Self-strength and perseverance are needed for survival when the world turns its back on you. 

Harry’s wand buzzes, indicating he is needed in the ward. He walks over to Malfoy and places a hand on his shoulder. “I always knew you would persevere.” He squeezes Malfoy’s shoulder and leaves the room before he can be hexed.

\--

Draco rearranges his bedclothes. While the hospital is allowing him to wear his own pyjamas, he is still in _pyjamas_. Potter is coming by to check on him, and pyjamas are not remotely arousing. Draco doesn’t consider why arousing Potter is now an issue; he really has enough going on at the moment.

Potter is running late. Draco glances outside the room. Potter is at the nurses’ station….with someone. A male someone. An _attractive_ male someone. Draco narrows his eyes. The attractive male someone turns, and Draco identifies Dean Thomas . Dean Thomas, who Draco’s family imprisoned. Dean Thomas, who was known even in Hogwarts to play for both teams. Fuck.

\--

Harry knows that most AIDS patients are not fond of discussing sexual precautions or the unfortunate stigma around the disease, but Malfoy’s cold attitude seems excessive. Harry finishes his explanation hurriedly. It is probably better anyway to ask Malfoy for dinner a week after he was a patient instead of an hour after he was a patient.

\--

Harry skives off dinner at Ron and Hermione to check in on the support group he sends many of his patients to. He ignores their shared look over coffee in the Ministry cafeteria and whiles away the afternoon hours catching up on paperwork and earmarking research articles to read later when he is more focused. He leaves the hospital early for once, both startled by and grateful for the lack of darkness as he heads to the nearest alley to Apparate back to his flat.

Harry arrives at the church in which the meeting is to be held fifteen minutes early. He passes the time chatting with people he recognizes – and who are willing to talk to him. Not all attendees of these meetings came from him, and Harry is well aware of the wary they hold for people in authority positions, particularly those in the medical field. A lot of the public – and some of the most dense of the medical profession – still shy away from AIDS and treating those with it, condemning the victims as simply ‘getting what was coming to them, you know, with their lifestyle and all.’ Harry is used to it. He doesn’t approach anyone unfamiliar directly, but asks after Drew’s kids and how the sweetshop is going for Sara Claire. Lohren starts the meeting. Harry hangs to the back, not wanting to prevent anyone sharing details they wouldn’t want a Healer to know. He sets about organising the box of rubbers and a stack of pamphlets Hermione has designed which explain the most common sexual protection spells, stealing glances at the biscuits Sara Claire brought. It is a good thing he doesn’t attend every week, he thinks, and snatches up a biscuit.

Motion at the door distracts him from his second biscuit, and he looks up to spot who he, at least in his mind, has been waiting for. Malfoy looks healthier now, his hospital stay and Harry’s instructions having helped fill out his body. The sharp cheekbones are still prominent under the grey eyes that scan the room, but Harry is certain that no amount of nutrition would be able to cover them. Malfoy spots him and grins. Harry smiles back and is about to walk toward him when a hand reaches out and squeezes Malfoy’s waist. Harry stands, transfixed, as a tall, dark-haired man fully enters the room and leans forward to murmur something in Malfoy’s ear. Malfoy shoots the man a smirk and rolls his eyes. The two men move forward, grabbing chairs toward the back of the group, though not before the man presses a quick kiss to Malfoy’s cheek.

Harry inhales sharply. 

The meeting passes by in a blur. He vaguely hears Lohren call an end, and he startles into awareness as chairs are scraped back and a swarm of people heads for the biscuits behind him. He jumps none too gracefully out of the way, eyes locked on Draco and the other man. 

“…on Sunday?”

Lohren is talking to him.

Harry rubs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Sorry Lohren, I missed that. What did you say?”

Lohren smiles at him, a dimple popping up on one cheek. “Sunday. There’s going to be a fundraising drive at half three in the park. Can you make it?”

Harry smiles ruefully. “I’m afraid I can’t. I’m meeting Luna and Dean at four. Their daughter Marlene is in a local children’s choir.”

Lohren shrugs up at him. “Not a problem, dear. You already do so much for us.” Harry blushes. “Well, give Marlene a hug for me.”

Harry leans down and swiftly kisses Lohren’s cheek. “Of course.”

With one last glance at Malfoy – whose eyes are now piercingly trained on Harry – and the dark-haired (grumpy, Harry’s mind says) man, he walks to the door and leaves.

\--

Draco walks away from the church after the support group meeting. His elation at the lack of a Potter and Thomas relationship is marred when he feels a tug on his shirt and turns, exasperated, to Steve.

“ _What?_ And, honestly, stop with the sleeve-pulling. These shirts are rather expensive.”

Steve brushes aside the comment. “Draco, we need to talk.”

\--

They sit facing each other. Potter has opened his mouth several times to speak, but no words are yet forthcoming.

Draco has never been described as patient, and the last of Healer-patient formalities are unnecessary obstacles in front of his desires. “Look, Potter, can you finish up evaluating my life so I can set about asking you for a date?”

Potter takes on an amusingly surprised face for a moment and then sets about asking his questions with a smile on his lips.

\--

The tenderness is unexpected. Potter kisses his way down Draco’s chest, fingertips gliding along in the wake of his lips, tweaking at nipples, sides, navel. The pace is painfully slow, and Draco _surges_ from the bed at the first breath across his cock. The tantalizing touches continue while Potter’s mouth works around Draco, licking and nipping and sucking until Draco is gasping and pulling at the sheets. Potter slips his hands lower, circling Draco’s balls, his entrance, and then he _sucks_ and Draco lets go. 

\--

Harry yawns widely and only grabs his glasses before heading down to the basement kitchen of Grimmauld. It’s nothing Draco hasn’t seen before. The walk takes longer than it would have pre-Draco. Harry had continued to sleep in Sirius’s old room for ages, but Draco had insisted on converting the master bedroom into something actually befitting a master bedroom. Harry will admit – though only when Draco is withholding his mouth – that the bedroom conversion and the king size bed it contains were quite a good idea.

The flagstones beneath his toes are freezing, and Harry yelps as his bare toes encounter the cold stone.

Draco harrumphs, not moving from in front of the stove.

“Forgot your slippers, again?” His own, shiny blue suede in their posh glory.

Harry doesn’t answer. The flagstones serve to wake him up so his forgetfulness is not really important. And, as he slips his arms around Draco’s (pyjama clad, of course) waist, he sees the hint of a smile. He presses a sloppy kiss on the pale cheek and sets about making tea. He could, of course, use magic, but there is something about making the tea by hand that improves the taste. Draco thinks he’s ridiculous. 

They settle in at the long wooden table, Draco perusing the morning _Prophet_ and Harry making sure that his food actually enters his mouth. It’s as much as he could possibly get done at this hour, at least before he finishes his tea. He glances up and watches Draco turn the page of his paper and somehow bring his fork to his mouth without looking. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room makes calming tick tock noises, and Harry settles his head in his arms on the table. He can scrape a little more sleep before Draco bustles him out the door. A hand settles on his arm and rubs an absent-minded soothing pattern across his skin. Harry smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment here, or return to [LIVEJOURNAL](http://hd-tropes.livejournal.com/20655.html) to comment! ♥


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